


i found god (i found him in a lover)

by ama



Series: young tzadikim [2]
Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Jewish Character, Domestic, Established Relationship, Holocaust Reference, M/M, Prayer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 16:42:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5056093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ama/pseuds/ama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles wakes early one morning and watches Erik pray.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i found god (i found him in a lover)

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a longer, as-yet unwritten fic in which Erik goes to live with his half-brother, Archie Hicox, in the UK after the end of the war, and meets Charles when he is still a PhD student. And I just really wanted to write a fic where Erik is an observant Jew. Tefillin are ritual objects used mainly by Orthodox Jewish men during morning prayer. They look like [ this](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/8/81/Tefillin_worn_by_a_man_at_the_Western_Wall_in_Jerusalem.jpg). Erik recites the Birkhot Hashahar (I used the nontraditional egalitarian version because I personally find it prettier), the Shema, and the Amidah, which is not exactly the complete morning service, but it gets a bit long to describe in a short fic like this. If you want the Authentic Jewish ExperienceTM, I would recommend a synagogue instead.
> 
> Title is from the song ["Coming Down,"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eRXO77hJGKA) by Halsey.

Charles wakes up soon after Erik does, at approximately _far-too-early_ am. It is the sudden cool air against his side that wakes him, followed by the dip in the bed as Erik stands, but his mind is still fuzzy at first, caught in that hazy space between 'I know I'm dreaming and I must get up soon' and 'but it feels so real and the bed is so comfortable.' So he doesn’t allow himself to be bothered. He rolls over and pulls the blanket tighter against his exposed side, and dozes. He hears the hiss of water rushing through pipes as Erik uses the bathroom, and the soft tread of footsteps along the carpet. Erik rustles through his duffle bag and then opens the blinds, and Charles feels a sudden swoop of pleasure in his stomach as he realizes what comes next. Still he keeps his eyes closed, though, until he hears the soft rasp of Erik's voice.

"Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha’olam, asher kideshanu b’mitzvosav, v’tzivanu l’haniach tefillin."

Charles opens his eyes slowly, blinking away sleep. Erik has already dressed, in last night's jeans and a fresh t-shirt. He has run a hand through his hair, which made the front neater but did nothing for the back, and is wearing a maroon-colored yarmulke. And in his hand is the strap of his tefillin, which he wraps around his bicep, his expression solemn. Charles traces the path of the black leather with a familiarity as easily as if he has donned it himself—first two loops, just by the black wooden box above the crease of Erik's elbow, then three below it, then four against his forearm. He holds the end firmly in his hand so that it doesn’t unravel, and affixes the second box just above his forehead. Then, finally, he loops the leather around his finger twice, and closes his eyes with a soft, content sigh. He lingers there for a moment, suspended in between rituals.

It is so tempting to peek. It always is, with Erik. Charles loves the shape of his mind—the rush of certainty, passion, _righteousness_ that can overtake them at a moment’s notice. Sometimes it sparks an argument. Sometimes they share it. Either way, it is never easy to pull away, and he is grateful that Erik doesn’t often ask him to.

But he has promised to never spy on Erik's prayers, and that is a promise he intends to keep. Charles has never, personally, believed in the divine, but he knows without needing to be told that there is a difference between what man is willing to share with his fellow man, and what he needs to share with his God. He asks Erik, sometimes, what the Hebrew means, and Erik answers, but the text of his inner prayers remains a secret.

Light plays over Erik’s face, accompanied by peace and strength. He is always strong; the peace is rarer.

After a minute of stillness, Erik opens his eyes and picks up his prayer book from the windowsill. He begins to daven in a low, lilting voice. Charles recognizes this one; Erik usually doesn’t go through the full morning service, but there are three that he never skips, and this is one of them.

_Blessed are You, Ruler of the Universe, who has made me free. Blessed are You who has made me a Jew. Blessed are You who has made me in Your divine image._

_Blessed are You who has made me a mutant_ , Charles thinks, his lips curving into a smile. His muscles feel stiff and he stretches out against the sheets, trying to be as silent as possible so as not to disturb the rhythm of Erik’s voice. His voice slips in and out of the chanting melody of prayer, and at one point he halts, coughs, and frowns as he begins the Shema again. Charles feels his entire mind turn towards the words of the prayer and admires his devotion.

Then Erik shuffles forward and back on the carpet and bows, which had startled Charles the first time he saw it. He can't imagine him bowing in any other context. Everything about him speaks of pride—his straight broad shoulders, the critical line of his brow, the way his fingers lazily flip a coin over his knuckles when they are alone. Or, sometimes, when they are not alone. When they sit in cafes or parks or libraries just a little too close, Erik daring someone to comment and Charles ensuring that they won't, and Erik laughs at his caution and takes out the coin, allowing it to hover a scant half-inch above his skin as it whirls back and forth. A shiver slides over Charles's bare skin when he thinks of these moments, and he selfishly hopes that Erik will finish soon. He can’t perform illusions on his own mind, and with whiskey clouding his memories he can’t quite recall the velvet drag of Erik’s palm against his skin from the night before. He would prefer to feel it again, and see the slow, lazy smirk on his face. Pride can be so very attractive when it is justly earned.

And it is given up, with no hesitation and no self-consciousness. Erik bends his knees first, his eyes intent on his siddur, and then he bows his head. Charles's gaze traces the elegant curve of his back.

He wonders, sometimes, how this came to be. He knows that Erik was young when his parents began keeping him home from school out of fear for his safety, and that they worked too long and too hard to sit down and teach him the prayers, let alone the texts. He knows that his half-brother is Jewish by birth rather than upbringing or faith. He knows that men have survived far lesser evils than Erik, and renounced religion and God without a second thought. He knows that Erik scorns certain commandments and feels no guilt at doing so—thou shalt not kill being foremost among them. All this Charles knows from conversation, shrewd guesses, and a few glimpses into his mind. Still he wonders. He could search for the answer. He could ask.

But he doesn't really want to. It's contrary to the scientist in him, of course, but he likes some things to simply  _exist_. He wants Erik to be strong and happy. He wants to admire him for it without needing to pick him apart. They’ve known each other for years now, and he’s immersed himself in Erik’s mind on many, many occasions, but it has never lost its wonder. He is grateful for that. A sudden wave of love and admiration and desperation hits him, and he swallows thickly.

For the first time, Erik's eyes flicker back to the bed, and his eyebrow arches in amusement. Charles burrows further back into the blankets and mimes zipping his lips, then flaps a hand in wordless apology. Erik smiles.

He returns to the siddur, his eyes half-lidded as he prays, swaying gently back and forth. He closes the book and takes a deep breath. He touches the book to his lips and sets it back on the windowsill. With the same careful deliberation he unwraps his tefillin and places it in his duffle bag, along with his yarmulke.

"Amen," Charles says as Erik climbs back into bed, and it earns him a snort.

"Blasphemer," Erik accuses, leaning down to kiss him. "Idolater," he murmurs against his lips. Charles hums.

“Entreat me not to leave you, or turn away from you,” he quotes. “For wherever you go, I will go, and wherever you rest, I will rest. Your people shall be my people, and your God, my God.”

“The devil quoting scripture?” Erik asks around a yawn. He pillows his head on Charles’s chest and closes his eyes. He looks tired.

“Pick another metaphor, darling. If I’m the devil, then that makes you Jesus Christ, and I rather think we’ve both been miscast.” Erik shakes with laughter, and Charles cards a hand through his hair. “How long are you staying?” he asks quietly. He is reluctant to say it, but he has learned that it is better to ask right away. If he lets himself wait until the second evening, then he oftens finds himself horrifically disappointed.

“Not long,” Erik answers in a low mumble.

He reaches over and grasps Charles’s wrist loosely, guiding his hand lower to touch his temple, and Charles obligingly slips into his mind to feel his regret, his wordlessly apology. Erik doesn’t like apologizing out loud. It’s better like this, he always thinks, because Charles can tell exactly what he is apologizing for, and what he isn’t.

“Will you be back next month?” he asks, trying to sound casual. Erik radiates caution and doubt, and Charles tries not to project his disappointment.

“What’s next month?”

“I’m defending my thesis.”

“Already?” Erik says, surprised, and a smile flickers on Charles’s lips.

“It’s been a good few years now. Is there any chance you can make it?”

Erik nods slowly drags his hand up and down Charles’s side.

“Of course, basherter,” he mumbles, and Charles shivers at the sensation of hands and lips and words and early-morning sunlight against his skin.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Charles quotes the Book of Ruth, 1:16.  
> basherter: (m.) Yiddish, "destined one"


End file.
